1:33 pm.
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I misread the bright sun as an indication of warmth and leave my house in a sweatshirt and jeans. Once outside, I notice the porch thermometer read 30.6 F and one gust of wind makes me sure that is a generous estimate. I venture back inside for a second sweatshirt and a scarf.
My fingertips grow numb around the red, leather-bound notebook as I begin the walk to the corner. There are no city regulations on sidewalks- they vary neighborhood to neighborhood. That said, the sidewalk begins at my neighbor's place (absent in front of my own home) and stretches to the end of Pierce where it crosses its parallel compatriot along Merriman Road. I begin my walk in the wet, asphalt street, fearful of splash-back from passing vehicles driving through the puddles of thick, gray slush. A quick hop over the foot-wide puddle at the base of Glenn and Claire's driveway puts me safely on the sidewalk.
Not quite every other square of the sidewalk is salted-- it seems to go two or three on, two or three off. The salted squares have returned to their usual shade of notice-me-not beige. This hue is especially lackluster and stark next to the squares still covered in snow now glowing blue-white and brilliant in the sun. The variance between the two types of squares is geometric. The whole thing looks like a column in an inexpertly crafted chessboard.
I stop at the corner. Looking down, I notice I am on a beige square. I stoop to examine the pile of rock salt that rests in the center. Each chunk of salt is maybe a 1/3" in diameter, a polygon varying from cube to tetrahedron. I wonder if its crystalline structure resembles a magnified version of the snowflake it so readily destroys. It seems strange the two should have such a volatile relationship; salt and water seem to get on rather well in the sea. I drop the salt rock I am handling into a pile of undisturbed snow. Immediately, it begins to burn through the layers of frozen water. I swear I hear a sizzle. The salt on the roads and sidewalk changes the smell of this cold, adds a sharp, metallic note to the air. I walk back breathing deeply, imagining I can smell the difference as I cross from a salted square to an unsalted one and back.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Prompt Entry 2
10:40 am. 21F, Wind Chill -1F
I would give anything for summer. It doesn't matter how many winters I've spent in this godforsaken part of the world; I never get used to the cold, and I certainly never enjoy it. I can wax poetic about the crisp air and the reflection of moonlight on icicles but, mostly, winter is nothing to me except a mumbled string of curse-words every time I set foot outside. Twenty feet from my front door to the car. Shitgoddamnitsonofa. I hate the instantaneous coldburn on exposed skin. I hate that it is impossible to cover yourself completely. Lips, eyeballs, wrists. Something is always left exposed.
10:44 am. 20F, Wind Chill -1F
My dad died on the most lovely spring day. It was the end of April and the lilac bushes were beginning to bloom. Their heavy, sweet scent hung in the dense, pollinated air. I remember in the days before his death the temperatures had risen sharply, which often happens in Michigan in the springtime. The whole state is frozen well into March and April, and then one day the sun burns hotter, the snow drifts melt and the cold disappears.
10:45 am. 20F, Wind Chill -2F
I sit in my car as it begins to warm up. I could go back inside but I'd rather not expose myself to the wind again. I bundle further into myself, sinking into the seat, chin to chest, hands over my face, knees pulling toward my hips. What is it like to be born in a warm place? I always wondered that. I never liked winter, even as a child, and envied those kids who got to grow up in Florida or Texas or California. What would it be like to never know the cruel indifference of a bitter, sneering winter? What would it be like to never feel tears freeze in the corners of your eyes?
10:47 am. 22F, Wind Chill 0F
My first experience with death happened in the dead of the winter. I was 10 and in fifth grade. My grandmother got sick before Christmas, went into the hospital as I started winter break and died in January after I returned to school. My mother had melted into a pool of grief. I remember listening to my father on the phone after the funeral. I'm not sure who he was talking to.
"Oh, yeah, Michelle's really having a rough time with it, crying all the time, you know. Her and Jimmy are both really upset. Yeah, you know how it is. Yeah, Cassie's doing alright. She's kind of like me-- kind of cold."
I've never forgotten the way I felt at that moment, the way my heart fluttered as my face hardened. I'll never forget how it felt to be called the thing I hated most. I didn't cry.
My mother swears this never happened.
But she wasn't there.
10:48 am. 22F, Wind Chill -1F
It takes an extraordinary amount of effort to pilot an automobile on the ice. My city has been losing money steadily since the 90's and infrequently salts the side streets. I begin my drive to work slowly. I keep my gaze steely and direct. I maintain control.
10:59 am. 23F, Wind Chill 0F
The world is cruel. The world is cruel and indifferent and cold. I learned this mere months into life, when below-freezing winds crystallized the newborn tears in my eyes.
I would give anything for summer. It doesn't matter how many winters I've spent in this godforsaken part of the world; I never get used to the cold, and I certainly never enjoy it. I can wax poetic about the crisp air and the reflection of moonlight on icicles but, mostly, winter is nothing to me except a mumbled string of curse-words every time I set foot outside. Twenty feet from my front door to the car. Shitgoddamnitsonofa. I hate the instantaneous coldburn on exposed skin. I hate that it is impossible to cover yourself completely. Lips, eyeballs, wrists. Something is always left exposed.
10:44 am. 20F, Wind Chill -1F
My dad died on the most lovely spring day. It was the end of April and the lilac bushes were beginning to bloom. Their heavy, sweet scent hung in the dense, pollinated air. I remember in the days before his death the temperatures had risen sharply, which often happens in Michigan in the springtime. The whole state is frozen well into March and April, and then one day the sun burns hotter, the snow drifts melt and the cold disappears.
10:45 am. 20F, Wind Chill -2F
I sit in my car as it begins to warm up. I could go back inside but I'd rather not expose myself to the wind again. I bundle further into myself, sinking into the seat, chin to chest, hands over my face, knees pulling toward my hips. What is it like to be born in a warm place? I always wondered that. I never liked winter, even as a child, and envied those kids who got to grow up in Florida or Texas or California. What would it be like to never know the cruel indifference of a bitter, sneering winter? What would it be like to never feel tears freeze in the corners of your eyes?
10:47 am. 22F, Wind Chill 0F
My first experience with death happened in the dead of the winter. I was 10 and in fifth grade. My grandmother got sick before Christmas, went into the hospital as I started winter break and died in January after I returned to school. My mother had melted into a pool of grief. I remember listening to my father on the phone after the funeral. I'm not sure who he was talking to.
"Oh, yeah, Michelle's really having a rough time with it, crying all the time, you know. Her and Jimmy are both really upset. Yeah, you know how it is. Yeah, Cassie's doing alright. She's kind of like me-- kind of cold."
I've never forgotten the way I felt at that moment, the way my heart fluttered as my face hardened. I'll never forget how it felt to be called the thing I hated most. I didn't cry.
My mother swears this never happened.
But she wasn't there.
10:48 am. 22F, Wind Chill -1F
It takes an extraordinary amount of effort to pilot an automobile on the ice. My city has been losing money steadily since the 90's and infrequently salts the side streets. I begin my drive to work slowly. I keep my gaze steely and direct. I maintain control.
10:59 am. 23F, Wind Chill 0F
The world is cruel. The world is cruel and indifferent and cold. I learned this mere months into life, when below-freezing winds crystallized the newborn tears in my eyes.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Prompt Entry 1
Statistically speaking, I don't know whether or not most people grow up in the same house for the majority of their youth. I know I didn't. By the time I was 18 and out on my own, I'd been through five houses in three different cities with my family. My childhood moved swiftly. Hintz Road, Dean Drive, Division Street. Owosso, Gaines, Garden City. The years with my father, his death, everything after.
Michigan is The Great Lakes State. It is a fact that anywhere you are in Michigan, you are no more that six miles from a body of water. I love water in all its forms. Grandma Pat still calls me her water baby. I spent every summer swimming in her pool until we moved out of town. Grandma Pat and I would walk across the street to the Shiawassee River with stale bread to feed the geese. Sometimes we'd drive to Higgins Lake to feed the geese over there. Every summer my mom, my brothers and I spent a week at Sage Lake with cousins. We'd bring inflatable rafts, tie them together and float in shallow water. One year, the older girls and I took our rafts and went tubing down the Rifle River. It was shallow but moved fast and I delighted in the free feeling of bouncing around in the currents, sure of where I would arrive, not knowing quite how I would get there.
My first out-of-state move took me to the Georgia coast. I was awed by the ocean but less so than people who never saw Lakes Huron, Michigan and Superior's freshwater coasts swallow the horizon. When I left Georgia for New York City, I would take the L-train to 1st Avenue, walk down, through the financial district and stop at Battery Park. I would walk down to the Pier, to the very edge and look down at the cold, black saltwater as it slopped the concrete border of the city. I left New York City to come home. The vitality flowing through me had been drained, siphoned away and dispersed as a fog.
The deepest connection I have to Michigan is to the water I grew up loving. I change form: stagnate, evaporate and collect myself again. I move constantly: walk, bicycle, run away. My life is full of abrupt turns, swiftly changing directions and inconstant currents. I seek out my source only to move away from it again, to come back, to move away...
(me in the middle, on my Grandpa Willie's property on the Grand River)
Michigan is The Great Lakes State. It is a fact that anywhere you are in Michigan, you are no more that six miles from a body of water. I love water in all its forms. Grandma Pat still calls me her water baby. I spent every summer swimming in her pool until we moved out of town. Grandma Pat and I would walk across the street to the Shiawassee River with stale bread to feed the geese. Sometimes we'd drive to Higgins Lake to feed the geese over there. Every summer my mom, my brothers and I spent a week at Sage Lake with cousins. We'd bring inflatable rafts, tie them together and float in shallow water. One year, the older girls and I took our rafts and went tubing down the Rifle River. It was shallow but moved fast and I delighted in the free feeling of bouncing around in the currents, sure of where I would arrive, not knowing quite how I would get there.
My first out-of-state move took me to the Georgia coast. I was awed by the ocean but less so than people who never saw Lakes Huron, Michigan and Superior's freshwater coasts swallow the horizon. When I left Georgia for New York City, I would take the L-train to 1st Avenue, walk down, through the financial district and stop at Battery Park. I would walk down to the Pier, to the very edge and look down at the cold, black saltwater as it slopped the concrete border of the city. I left New York City to come home. The vitality flowing through me had been drained, siphoned away and dispersed as a fog.
The deepest connection I have to Michigan is to the water I grew up loving. I change form: stagnate, evaporate and collect myself again. I move constantly: walk, bicycle, run away. My life is full of abrupt turns, swiftly changing directions and inconstant currents. I seek out my source only to move away from it again, to come back, to move away...
(me in the middle, on my Grandpa Willie's property on the Grand River)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Place Entry 1
11:33 pm
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I'm the first person to walk down the sidewalk. I can tell because snow has been falling for the last six hours and there isn't a single track other than mine. The toes of my boot kick up miniature snowstorms that fall behind me as I trod.
Even though it is snowing, the air is dry. It's as if there is only enough moisture to sustain the few flakes as they meander in spirals to their resting place. When the air is humid, snowflakes stick together in drop-like clumps. Those snows tend to be warmer, and in them you can feel that the sky longed desperately for rain.
Tonight there is little wind-- a blessing in the 16 degree weather.
I reach the corner. The road is slick black, and cars splatter a mix of water, oil and dirt from beneath their tires, tingeing the newly-fallen snow gray at the edges. Snow is always beautiful until human intervention. In fact, tonight's snow is falling atop old snow that has been a dreary shade of frozen brown-gray for days. I dig into the ground with the toe of my boot until I reach frozen soil and reveal a gradient scale of white to black.
It is almost midnight and still light enough for me to write. This is only partially due to the orange and white streetlights (every other of which has been put out to save the city government on their electric bills). Even when you manage to reach those rare places beyond the municipal halos, all the lights of man (headlights, neon signs, porch lights, televisions, cell phones, airplanes) reflect onto the white snow reflect onto the canopy of clouds reflect onto the white snow... This ping-ponging of light obscures the rich darkness. Occasionally a blue-black smear flutters like a raven in the distance. But it is never truly dark. Not in winter. Not in the suburbs.
I walk back slowly, pausing beneath a humming, white streetlight to look up. It is lovely weather to breathe. The cold oxygen respires thorough and deep in the lungs. The resultant carbon dioxide is visible momentarily, a reminder of vitality. A dozen flakes dance above me in pairs, countering each other rhythmically, waltzing to the ground.
The corner of my street (Suburban Detroit)
I'm the first person to walk down the sidewalk. I can tell because snow has been falling for the last six hours and there isn't a single track other than mine. The toes of my boot kick up miniature snowstorms that fall behind me as I trod.
Even though it is snowing, the air is dry. It's as if there is only enough moisture to sustain the few flakes as they meander in spirals to their resting place. When the air is humid, snowflakes stick together in drop-like clumps. Those snows tend to be warmer, and in them you can feel that the sky longed desperately for rain.
Tonight there is little wind-- a blessing in the 16 degree weather.
I reach the corner. The road is slick black, and cars splatter a mix of water, oil and dirt from beneath their tires, tingeing the newly-fallen snow gray at the edges. Snow is always beautiful until human intervention. In fact, tonight's snow is falling atop old snow that has been a dreary shade of frozen brown-gray for days. I dig into the ground with the toe of my boot until I reach frozen soil and reveal a gradient scale of white to black.
It is almost midnight and still light enough for me to write. This is only partially due to the orange and white streetlights (every other of which has been put out to save the city government on their electric bills). Even when you manage to reach those rare places beyond the municipal halos, all the lights of man (headlights, neon signs, porch lights, televisions, cell phones, airplanes) reflect onto the white snow reflect onto the canopy of clouds reflect onto the white snow... This ping-ponging of light obscures the rich darkness. Occasionally a blue-black smear flutters like a raven in the distance. But it is never truly dark. Not in winter. Not in the suburbs.
I walk back slowly, pausing beneath a humming, white streetlight to look up. It is lovely weather to breathe. The cold oxygen respires thorough and deep in the lungs. The resultant carbon dioxide is visible momentarily, a reminder of vitality. A dozen flakes dance above me in pairs, countering each other rhythmically, waltzing to the ground.
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